


Pick Up the Pieces and Go Home

by Peril_in_Peace



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Attempted moments of levity, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infinity War Speculation, The Peters need hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 08:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13807488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peril_in_Peace/pseuds/Peril_in_Peace
Summary: “I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya, kid,” Quill murmured. And it helped. Peter managed a couple of deep, shaky breaths and then just let himself feel warm for a minute.“What is going to happen? To us?” he whispered. He felt Quill swallow hard and his grip shifted a little, a hand now tight on Peter’s shoulder. Grounding.“I don’t know.”





	Pick Up the Pieces and Go Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [philthestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/gifts).
  * Inspired by [put your kingdom up for sale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13771746) by [philthestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone). 



> Inspired by Philthestone's "Put Your Kingdom Up For Sale," because I wanted the fic about Quill big-brothering Parker through what was bound to be a Pretty Bad Time. Please go read that. Give love. It's amazing. (Really, it's better than this!)

 

So far, space was a pretty huge letdown. 

Sure, there was the whole “where no man has gone before” element, but it turned out even  _ that _ wasn’t even really true. And it was cool and everything, riding in a spaceship and meeting aliens… but… 

Well, as interested in seeing the sights as he might be, this cell was getting old.

Peter wiggled his bare toes again, just to make sure they were still there and working. Between the cold and the tightness of the heavy metal hexagonal cuffs around each ankle, his big toenails had started turning blue and it was a little concerning. He pulled his knees up and hugged his arms around his legs as best he could, propping the cold cuffs on his wrists on top of each other and tucking his icy fingers under his chin.

At least his suit kept him warm enough. He’d have to remember to thank Tony for that. When he had a chance.

He sighed, wondering how long he’d been here. It couldn’t have been too long. They hadn’t fed him, and he wasn’t hungry enough yet to feel particularly desperate. But the little squeaks and gurgles from his stomach were becoming a bit more frequent and he  _ had _ started to ponder the question of how well his… hosts… would be accommodating his human stomach.

If at all.

He scratched his forehead on a rough edge of one of the cuffs and turned his head to look around the dim cell from his corner. There was a single lit panel above where he thought the door was, although the whole wall was smooth. All four walls, the floor and ceiling were practically black, maybe dark gray, and seamless, except for a small, kinda smelly floor grate.

It was small, too. He thought his room at home was small? He wondered if the cell was large enough to fit much more than just his bed.

But what bothered Peter most, really, was the quiet. He’d spent most of his life in a little apartment in Queens, lulled to sleep every night by the sounds of traffic on the street and murmurs from the neighbors, too-loud music muffled through too-thin walls and lumbering footsteps from the guy upstairs who had to be training in Sumo. If anything, he always knew what was going on.

And now, the silence was driving him nuts. Not knowing what was happening outside, in the hall, feeling like he was the only one alive on this ship or planet or wherever the hell he was.

That. That was too much. That the only sounds were his own breaths and the near-silent shuffles of his own body against itself as he tightened his arms around his legs.

He patted his bare feet against the cold floor just for a little extra noise.

And he almost didn’t hear the high-pitched whine building in the cuffs around his wrists and ankles before he felt the vibration. Startled, Peter uncurled himself in time for his ankles to lock together like powerful magnets coming too close, followed quickly by the ones on his wrists doing the same.

For a second, all Peter could do was sit there and make sure he was still breathing. He counted each inhale. Just to make sure.

Before he got to five, part of the wall slid open. The light that flooded in was blinding, relative to the cell, and Peter squinted away, futilely driving his heels into the floor to scoot further back into his corner.

He didn’t see much; his eyes pulled shut on their own, tearing up against the light from the door. But he could make out shadows. And then there was the loudest sound he’d heard since he woke up in the cell--a large sack of potatoes being dropped to the floor and sucking in a labored breath.

The bright light disappeared and Peter cautiously opened his eyes, half expecting some ugly, ruthless alien to be standing over him. He could  _ feel _ , at least, that he wasn’t alone…

But instead, he saw a very human face, grimacing up at him from the floor.

Peter frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Quill just shook his head and closed his eyes, rolling slowly from his side and onto his back. He shimmied his bare feet, cuffed together just like his, up so his knees were bent, then spent about half a second trying to pull his hands apart, before bringing them up to his face and rubbing his eyes with his thumbs.

Peter shivered involuntarily as Quill stretched his arms over his head and balled up his hands after finding no other comfortable position for the heavy cuffs to rest. His jacket was gone, leaving just his gray long-sleeved t-shirt, his scuffed and battle-worn pants, and no boots. He was gonna get cold. 

Peter winced at himself, realizing like an idiot that that was probably the point.

“You okay?” Quill asked. He wasn’t loud, but it  _ sounded _ loud.

Peter nodded, then swallowed. “Yeah,” he croaked. He swallowed again and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Quill nodded and clenched his jaw, then opened his eyes, only to stare up at the ceiling.

“Are you--” Peter started, knowing the question sounded as hollow as it felt.

“I’m fine,” Quill answered flatly.

The cuffs vibrated again, whining at a pitch Peter could barely hear. The magnets, or connections or whatever, released, and Peter’s hands and feet fell apart. He leaned into the corner, dropping his head back.

Quill groaned and stretched, startling Peter with a fist to the knee. Peter squinted at him, ready to lay into the man with an indignant, “hey,” but the look on his face stopped him. The room was small, and Quill hadn’t been trying to hit him. He was a big guy, one arm stretching up along the opposite wall, the other pulling away from Peter’s feet, now.

Quill’s face was tight, as he tucked his arms back in and rolled onto his stomach. He heaved himself up onto his knees, wincing as his weight cut the cuffs into his ankles, but he stayed upright.

Peter wondered how long his cuffs had been active to make it worth it.

Quill made his way to his feet slowly, a hand on the wall, then turned and leaned his back against it, stretching to his full height and reaching his hands up flat against the ceiling. It wasn’t more than half a foot above his head.

And out of nowhere, Peter suddenly felt so, so grateful not to be alone. Really, selfishly, super grateful.

He tried to push it back, but his chest tightened and his face grew hot. Peter ducked his head, dropping his forehead to his knees to hide the tears that were welling up.

_ Spiderman _ didn’t cry. Spiderman didn’t cry because he was  _ scared _ . Scared of being alone in an unfamiliar…  _ scary _ place. He was frickin’  _ Spiderman _ and he did. Not. Cry.

Except he did. Peter Parker cried at the end of sad movies, especially ones with dogs. He cried when bad things happened to good people. Because it was so, so  _ unfair _ .

He cried when he was scared and had no idea what to do or what was going to happen. But usually, it was nothing more than a flush of heat and red on his ears and neck, a few escaping tears he could stealthily blink away before they had a chance to trickle down.

But now. Oh, God, was he scared. And he couldn’t stop them--the heaving sobs. They just boiled up out of him like a force of nature, wracking his whole body.

Peter felt Quill, on the very edges of his senses, slide down the wall next to him. And he wanted to  _ hide _ , to let his dark little corner just swallow him up.

But instead, it was a pair of arms, pulling him closer with a mix of roughness and gentleness that could only make him think of the way May held him after Ben died; after the funeral when they went home alone for the first time, she had clutched at him, urgent and needy and holding on for him--and for her.

Quill held him and rubbed a hand up and down his arm and let him sob like a… a frickin’ toddler, tucking Peter’s head under his chin.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya, kid,” Quill murmured. And it helped. Peter managed a couple of deep, shaky breaths and then just let himself feel  _ warm _ for a minute.

“What _ is _ going to happen? To us?” he whispered. He felt Quill swallow hard and his grip shifted a little, a hand now tight on Peter’s shoulder. Grounding.

“I don’t know.”  

Peter thought about Quill’s green friend, Gamora. How her  _ fear _ rolled off of her in a muted way, like it was just  _ there _ all the time, and she ignored it. He’d only just met her, but when he and Tony had joined up with the Guardians and plotted to sneak aboard the big ship that had attacked Thor, Peter was sure he’d felt it spike.

The little hairs on the back of his neck had tingled as she looked over at him, just for a second. Expression surprisingly  _ human _ , and sad and worried and… terrified… before she pushed it down and turned away to talk something over with Quill in another part of the  _ Milano _ .

“Yeah, you do,” Peter found himself saying. He pulled away and tried to get a good look at Quill’s face, but he just looked straight ahead, as if trying to will the door to slide open with his mind.

Or keep it shut.

“I’m sorry you got caught up in all this shit,” Quill said quietly.

Peter shrugged a little and added his own gaze to the door, with one last sniffle and swipe at his nose, magnifying their willpower.

“I mean, shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

Peter looked down at his fingers, picking at his pinky nail. “I think it got cancelled. On account of alien invasion.”

The corner of Quill’s mouth twitched. “Okay, I guess that’s fair.” He smiled, quickly, like he just remembered something. “Like a snow day?”

Peter snorted. “Yeah. Like a snow day.”

And Peter started to laugh, a little glimmer of coherent thought pestering the back of his brain that wild emotional swings were probably a bad sign.

“An alien invasion snow day, and I'm gonna die in… footless… footie pajamas…” Peter wiggled his numb toes for good measure, and Quill raised an eyebrow before leaning his head back against the wall with a grin.

“Could be worse,” Quill chuckled.

“Yeah, how?”

Quill’s smile faded and Peter instantly regretted asking, even as Quill did his best to recover.

Tony did that too, and he recognized it instantly for what it was. Putting on a mask to cover up something horrible he didn't want “the kid” to know.

“Oh, I could tell you some stories,” Quill made his voice light, but it was clearly forced. He looked at Peter, though, and must have seen something in his face… any hint of laughter gone as his brow wrinkled.

Quill pursed his lips and turned to face him, wearing the most deadly serious expression he'd seen on the man in the short time since they'd met.

Peter's fists clenched in his lap as Quill pulled his shoulder, bringing them almost forehead to forehead.

“In… case I… can't. Later… I'm telling you this now. Don't forget it. You see a chance, you go. There are worse things than dying, kid. You get a chance, you run. You risk it.” Quill closed his eyes and squeezed his shoulder hard, then opened them again. “I'm... not saying we're done. We're not. We're  _ not _ . But this is--”

Peter nodded, meeting Quill’s tone. “I’ve been in trouble before.”

“No, you haven't. Not like this, okay. Not like this.”

“I'm not scared.” Peter tried to sound like he wasn't lying through his teeth.

Quill pulled away and leaned back, mirroring Peter's pose from earlier, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Well, I sure am.”

“So… what do we do?” Peter asked softly.

Quill sighed, staring at the door again. “Wait. Stick it out. Do the job.”

“The job?”

Quill looked pointedly at Peter. “Keep our mouths fucking shut. For as long as possible.” He smiled sadly and took a deep breath, like he was going to say something else. But he just let his head fall back against the wall.

“That’s it?”

Quill’s jaw tightened. “Trust me, that's enough.”

Peter stared at him for a second, trying not to let his imagination get away from him.

“But they're gonna come back… they're not gonna just leave us here… Tony… and your friends. They'll come get us…” he trailed off, watching Quill’s face harden.

“No.”

“But--”

Quill turned his head. His eyes weren't cold or mean, but… sad. And sure.

“Who would you trade?” He asked. Peter frowned.

“What?”

“Who would you trade? Because it's not like we all made it out last time…” Quill raised his arms and gestured around the cell. “And only a dumb thief hits the same mark twice. So, say they come? Who would you want ending up in  _ here _ because they tried to get  _ you _ out?”

Peter ran a hand down his face slowly and rubbed his eyes.

He heard Quill take a deep breath. “They  _ want _ to come back,” he started again, tone softer, calming. Peter tilted his head and caught Quill smiling to himself. “They're fighting about it. They don't want to leave us.”

Then he fixed Peter with a universally parental look; soft but serious. Assuring. “But they have to. You know that, right?”

Peter bit his lip. “Would  _ you _ be able to? Leave, like what you’re saying?”

Quill took a second to answer. “I’m supposed to say yes, but honestly...”

And Peter remembered... from the fight. When everything was going to shit.

_ Gamora yelled something, and Quill grabbed Rocket and made a break from the group, running down a relatively empty corridor. Tony must have thought it would be safer… he pushed Peter after them, and he went. _

_ They ended up in what must have been a control room of some kind. Lots of lights and screens, stuff on them that he couldn’t understand. Rocket tossed Quill a smooth, flat box, that could have been a phone or tablet, if they were on Earth, and he shoved in a little disk and plugged it in somewhere. And Rocket snagged Peter’s arm and pulled him to the doorway at the growing sound of footsteps and charging weapons. _

_ At some point, Quill shouted and tossed him a gun. He wasn’t a terrible shot… there were enough aliens to shoot, it was sort of hard to miss. And when Quill yelled that he had it, Rocket pushed forward with a blast from his rifle and Peter shot webs around the door frame, pulling weapons out of hands as Quill picked them off, turning their surprise into headshot after headshot. _

_ From there, things had gotten fast and blurry. They got out. Started heading back to the cargo hanger Gamora’d docked them at. Quill sent Peter and Rocket ahead while he tried to rig some heavy doors shut behind them. _

_ Tony and Gamora ran past them, and Peter had turned around, watching Tony’s back. He’d stopped, standing there for just a second, when a blast knocked him into the wall. He fell to the deck, ears ringing. Scrabbling with sluggish limbs to get up, crawl under the gray smoke filling the corridor. _

_ Bursts of light broke through the smoke; he laid low, gasping at the cleaner air at the deck, and pushed himself along the deck until he could see Quill and Gamora dragging Tony through a narrow doorway by his arms, ducking blaster shots. _

_ The ringing in Peter’s ears started to die away, shifting to the sounds of blasts and boot falls, getting closer and louder. He yelled for Tony and saw Quill and Gamora’s heads lift, startled, in his direction. And Quill grabbed Gamora’s arm and spun her back through the little door, hitting a panel with his other hand in the same motion. _

_ The little door slid shut. Quill had stood there for a second, looking through the window, then ducked as a shot came a little too close. He hit the panel again and started running toward Peter, aiming down the corridor behind him… until a bright white crackle of light made everything just… stop. _

Peter swallowed hard and looked over at Quill, who…

“So, it’s a good thing you’re in here and not out there, huh?” Peter asked quietly, realizing Quill had already made his trade.

“Yup. Good thing,” Quill sighed.

“‘Cause  _ you _ would have come back, but Gamora--”

Quill shot him a look that said, ‘ _ leave it’ _ in no uncertain terms. But then he looked away.

“Not this time. This is too big. She'll do her job and let me do mine,” Quill said, a hint of quiet confidence in his voice.

A thought popped into Peter’s head at that, and the words were out before he could stop them.

“But don't  _ you _ still have the--”

Quill’s eyes widened. “Pete--”

The cuffs whined and his arms flung themselves at the wall faster than he could adjust--his right wrist locked with his palm out, but the pull on the left twisted his elbow and shoulder around painfully. He winced and stifled a cry as he pushed himself up on his knees to try and ease the pressure.

He heard a dull thud and turned his head enough to see Quill pinned against the opposite wall, having slid a good couple of feet. His eyes drooped a little and he squeezed them shut, then open again, trying to focus. His head had probably tried to keep going through the wall after the rest of him had hit.

The light panel flickered then got brighter, as the door slid open. Two of the alien goons, that were clearly of the disposable footsoldier variety, came in flanking a third. A short, skinny, older-looking alien with slicked-back white hair and a black outfit.

He came a few steps into the cell and looked at them both, then said something Peter couldn’t understand. He looked to Quill, but he only glanced back at Peter, focusing instead on the white-haired alien. Quill shifted uncomfortably, pushing himself up a little higher against the wall, but said nothing.

He smiled thinly and nodded, then seemed to… glide toward Peter.

“Hey!” Quill yelled. Slick smiled and crouched down beside him. Peter couldn’t help a feeling of dread twisting in his stomach.

“I suppose it would be unreasonable to expect such things from a terran child,” the alien said in carefully enunciated English.

“Yeah, it is,” Quill said.

“Still...” Slick grinned, and brought his hand up, as if he was about to caress his face. Peter flinched away.

“Stop, okay?” Quill shouted, then said something else in the language Slick used. The alien chuckled, an odd high-pitched sound that made Peter’s skin tingle. He turned away cheerfully, in stark contrast to the sweat breaking out on Quill’s forehead.

The alien answered, in a matter-of-fact-sounding tone followed by what seemed like a question, as he stepped over to Quill. He bent down, just slightly, and reached his spindly fingers to brush his hairline, then laid his hand gently to the side of Quill’s face.

Quill paled and tensed, digging his heels into the floor.

“Let us try again,” Slick said. “Do you know who I am?”

Peter stared at Quill, holding his breath. Quill tried to bite back a grunt, then hissed, “Yes.”

“And?” The alien prodded, tapping a finger on Quill’s temple.

“Maw,” Quill groaned. “ _ Fuck _ .”

The alien, Maw, smiled. “I cannot tell you how pleased we are that Gamora has not forgotten her roots,” he purred.

Quill’s face was bright red, now, his eyes squeezed shut as he actively pulled at the cuffs stuck to the wall, as if it would do any good.

“So,  _ Star-Lord, _ can I assume that we will understand each other? For the duration of your stay?”

Quill balled his fists and nodded.

“Say it,” Maw snarled.

“Yes,” Quill choked out. A trail of blood trickled from his left nostril, branching through his stubble down to his upper lip.

Maw crouched down and came eye to eye with Quill.

“What did you do with the data you stole?” he asked. His voice was calm, but intense, and even from a distance away, Peter found himself  _ wanting  _ to answer. He bit down hard on his lip and stared at Quill. Tears were openly streaming down his face, now, and he was breathing hard.

Peter knew a little about Wanda Maximoff’s powers… he wondered if this guy was anything like her and shivered.

“I-- stashed it. During the-- during the fight.”

“Where?”

“In some- somebody’s clothes. A belt...”

_ “Whose?”  _ Maw demanded. Quill’s voice was down to a rasp and the only thing holding up his head was the alien’s gross fingers.

Quill swallowed and shuddered and shook his head. “A-- a warrior. I--”

Maw growled and stood up, letting Quill’s chin drop to his chest. He turned to his escorts, still standing by the door and, with a nod, ushered them out of the room with a flurry of words that Peter couldn't follow.

The door slid shut, and in the quiet of the room, Peter could barely hear Quill mumbling. No, he was humming. He pulled his head up, and let it rest between his shoulder and the wall. And staring at nothing, went from humming to singing roughly, as if talking in his sleep.

Peter knew the song from May’s retro station. The one she liked to sing to and do “chair dances” with while driving him and Ned around.

“... Didn't care how much they cried, no sir… Their tears left me cold as a stone...”

“But then I fooled around and fell in love…” Peter sang softly. Quill blinked and Peter kept singing, trying to ignore the cold numbness creeping up his twisted left arm.

Peter didn’t know the next verse as well, but he hummed, heart pounding as adrenaline he had completely ignored or forgotten left his muscles all noodly. Quill’s voice started to get just a little stronger, and Peter almost cried with relief.

And then it was quiet, and Peter squirmed, working his way onto the balls of his feet in a tight crouch to try and let some blood flow back into his arms. He turned as far as he could to face the other side of the small room.

“Quill? Pe- Peter?” He said. Quill winced and pulled his knees up, groaning when he couldn’t get them high enough to cover his ears.

“Shhhh…” he hissed.

Peter swallowed. “Oh- okay... sorry…” he whispered. Quill nodded once, his eyes closed, but not squeezed shut in obvious pain anymore.

He stayed silent for a few minutes, evening out his breathing and trying to bring his heart rate down. And finally,  _ finally _ the cuffs released. Peter stumbled, and dropped onto his hip and his numb left hand while Quill managed to catch himself sliding down the other wall onto his side.

Peter crawled over and Quill halfheartedly waved him away while he helped him onto his back.

“You’re not gonna puke or anything, are you?” Peter asked quietly.

Quill smirked. “Nah,” he croaked.

Peter grinned and grabbed his hand. “Why that one? ‘Fooled Around and Fell in Love?” he asked.

“Was all I could hear. In my head while… ‘S kinda our song…”

Peter frowned and wondered for a second if Quill was really okay. “Whose…”

Quill glared at him and Peter’s mouth snapped shut. He dropped Quill’s hand and ducked his head, shaking it slowly. “It was my fault… wasn’t it? That… you said… they’re  _ listening _ ...”

“Don’t...”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. Quill sighed and sat up.

“Me too.”

“Wait, that’s not--”

Quill shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here at all. That’s on me. None… none of this is your fault, okay?”

Peter sniffed and nodded, replaying the last few minutes… hours… days? In his head, to find some way Quill was wrong and deftly poke holes in his statement. But all he came up with was--

_ Was all I could hear… kinda our song. _

And  _ “warrior…”  _ What a weird word to use.

Peter’s eyes flicked up to Quill’s, a grin spreading across his face.

He gave the data chip to  _ Gamora _ . And probably… hopefully… the bad guys still had no idea.

Peter sat back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Quill, trying not to just laugh.

“What other songs do you know?” he asked.

Quill smiled.  

* * *

“Okay,” Peter said, sipping on a bag of water. “That one sounds like it’s about a dirty old man trying to get a teenager to, like…  give him her virginity.”

“Oh my God, what are you  _ talking _ about... “

“I’ll lead you into the  _ promised land _ ? Tell me that’s not a euphemism…”

“It’s not!”

“Are you serious? Sit here by my side and take a  _ free ride _ ? Ugh.”

“Hey, if your… gross… teenage mind makes it something it’s  _ clearly _ not, that’s  _ your _ deal, man,” Quill made a show of shivering as he took the bag Peter offered and sucked down a couple of mouthfuls.

“Okay, this one for sure, though…” Peter smiled. “You know ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper?”

“Blue Oyster Cult?” Quill nodded. “It’s on my Zune.”

Peter tilted his head. “Wait, wait… a  _ Zune _ ? They still make those?”

Quill rolled his eyes.

“Nevermind. Anyway, we had to analyze it in English last year… it’s totally about a couple of drug addicts.”

Quill laughed. “Dude, you are so wrong.”

“I’m not!”

“What the… was your teacher  _ high _ ?

Peter thought of Mr. Keller for a second, and raised an eyebrow as the full picture of a bonafide hippie developed in his brain.

“Actually... maybe,” he deadpanned.

“Right,” Quill said, leaning forward smugly and folding his hands in his lap. “That, my friend, is a song about coming to terms with the possibility of an early death.”

“That’s… kind of… anticlimactic.”

“I don’t know… freeing yourself of that kind of fear, so you can… just  _ live _ … you don’t think that’s sort of… deep?”

“Oh, deep, sure…” Peter said. “But the drug thing is sexier.”

“One track fucking mind… sexier…” Quill mumbled. “Kids.”

“I’m sure you were  _ such  _ a saint.”

Quill snorted and choked back a laugh.

Peter nodded and grabbed back the water bag. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Hey,  _ I _ was raised by space pirates. What’s your excuse?”

“Increasingly unwholesome television?” Peter shrugged.

“Touché.”

“Hey…” Peter said softly, setting the half-empty water bag on the floor. He glanced down at the cuffs he’d been trying real hard to ignore. He could feel Quill follow his gaze and tense a little in response to his serious shift.

“Why didn’t they separate us?” Peter asked. “Seems like that would be the more evil super-villainy way to do things.” 

“Mmmm… Lot’s of reasons…” Quill mused, but Peter could feel his discomfort, radiating.

“Like?”

“Insurance… leverage… information… Solitary prisoners are boring. They don’t talk... And can get a little reckless… people get stupid when they’re alone… when they think the only one they’re risking is themselves.”

“Insurance…” Peter murmured. Quill nodded.

“So what happens wh-- if they don’t find--”

“We do the job.”

Peter watched him. Quill looked tired, and more than a little worried… maybe scared. But he was real, and  _ here  _ and--

“Yeah… but that guy…”

Quill pursed his lips and nodded. “For as long as we can.”

* * *

Quill was gone when Peter woke up.

Peter kept… closing his eyes, and opening them again… expecting that to change.

He  _ looked _ for him. Got up and looked around, like he’d misplaced his keys or phone.

But he was okay. Peter was okay. He remembered what Quill told him… that single prisoners are boring.  _ Insurance. Leverage. Information _ . They’d bring him back.

He was fine. He was okay. He was just going to sit in his corner for a while and wait.

He hummed  _ Hooked on a Feeling _ .

He realized he was laughing at the image of Will Ferrell banging a cowbell when he moved on to  _ Don’t Fear the Reaper.  _ He made a mental note to tell Quill about that sketch when he got back.

Peter absently wondered what the aliens monitoring the cell would think if he started practicing his Christopher Walken impression.

At that, he started laughing. Just… cackling uncontrollably.

Until the door slid open. Peter startled, a cross of hope and tension, expecting the cuffs to activate--but it was just the daily food and water drop, and the door closed again within seconds.

Peter looked to the middle of the floor. His heart sank, chest  _ hurting _ .

He got up and slowly walked over to the water bag, staring down at it. He wanted to pick it up and hurl it at the wall. But that would be dumb.

_ People get stupid when they’re alone. _

He took a deep breath and bent over and picked it up. That and the one food bar.

It was just a mistake, he was sure. It had to be.

He’d only eat half of it. There’d be two again tomorrow.

* * *

He didn’t sleep.

When he closed his eyes, Peter wondered if Quill was dead.

And it was quiet again. He’d forgotten how quiet it was when he was alone.

So he sang. Hummed what he didn’t know, or made up the words.

Then he started to talk. He knew he was talking to himself… but he started to tell Quill stories… about school, Earth, stupid shit he and Ned did last summer.

Just so it wouldn’t be quiet.

And when there was only one food bar again, he cried.

* * *

_ People get stupid when they’re alone. _

_ You get a chance, you run. You risk it. _

Peter stared at the door.

If Quill wasn’t coming back, he had no reason to stay here.

He stared at the door. The quiet didn’t bother him anymore. Peter centered himself, focusing on each heartbeat and letting them echo through him, the space between them stretching out, longer and longer.

He crouched against the wall, directly across from the door, and splayed his fingers against it.

The cuffs might be a problem. He had no idea if they would work outside this room… he figured they would, but still…

_ You risk it _ .

He had to do something.

The door would open for a few seconds, and the water bag and food bar would be tossed in. That’s when he would run. Just a few seconds--

The cuffs whined. Peter was wound so tight, ready to sprint, that he launched from the wall, only to be pulled back by the wrists. He screamed, a roar of surprise and anger, pushed out in a tearful, “No! Fucking no!”

He pulled at the cuffs, yelling incoherently, straining with all of his strength. He’d done so much… he’d lifted  _ buildings  _ off of himself, but he couldn’t get away from a  _ fucking wall _ \--

The door opened and Peter just deflated. “Goddammit…” he sighed. He was shaking, fists tight and white-knuckled. 

A shadow crossed the threshold, then was pushed into the room, onto its knees, before the door closed behind it. And Peter just cried harder.

The cuffs released and Peter scrambled to Quill, wrapping his arms around him, like a little kid. Quill grunted, but absorbed the tackle, embracing him back, just as tight.

“I thought you were dead,” Peter said, his voice soggy and hitched.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Quill whispered.

“I-- I was gonna risk it.”

Quill squeezed his shoulder. “Good.”

Peter sat back and looked Quill over. “I mean are you okay? Are--”

He had dark circles under his eyes and his beard was getting full-on shaggy, but aside from looking worn out, he was probably okay…

“Hey…” Quill started. He winked, then started singing, “If you need me, call me, no matter where you are, no matter how far. Just call my name, I’ll be there in a hurry, you don’t have to worry…”

Peter stared at him.

And got an unmistakable feeling that Quill knew something Peter didn’t.  

_ Stick it out. _

_ No matter where you are, no matter how far. I’ll be there in a hurry, you don’t have to worry… _

_ They’ll want to come back. They’ll fight about it… _

Peter’s eyes widened. He wasn’t sure… but between Quill singing and his admittedly selective memories, there was this relentless hope building in his chest.

He sighed and sat back against the wall, next to Quill, picking up the next few lines.

“‘Cause baby there ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough. Ain’t no river wide enough… to keep me from getting to you.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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